


between victory and a white flag

by mapped



Category: Black Sails
Genre: 4x08, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Episode Related, Fluff and Angst, Light Bondage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-08 01:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10374540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapped/pseuds/mapped
Summary: Flint wants nothing more than for Silver to be king.A 4x08 reaction fic.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Intermission' by Sleeping At Last.

“I do not expect your understanding, but I demand your support. As my partner, as my friend. Do I have it? _Do I have it?_ ”

“Yes,” Flint says, because what else can he say? What else can he say, looking at this man who has done more for him than anybody ever has? How could there possibly be any other answer than this?

Silver may not expect his understanding, but he understands all the same. Oh, he understands.

And so Silver tells Flint his plan, and Flint listens.

And then, when Silver is done, when Flint has agreed, Silver staggers back against the wall again, breath short and heaving as if he has just sprinted a mile, missing leg and all, and he stares at Flint, his blue eyes like some glinting blade that scores aching wounds deep into Flint’s chest. In the silence Flint absorbs the enormity of Silver’s plan, and finds himself admiring all over again how brilliant this man in front of him is. How he has never in his life met anyone equal to John Silver.

“Last night, you said that I was the best of us,” Silver says eventually, calm and pensive now, twisting his crutch this way and that. “Do you still truly believe that?”

“I do,” Flint says, thinking of Silver on a beach, having dragged Flint out of the sea and about to follow Flint right back into it; on a windowsill, fevered and sweating, a blanket over the fresh, raw stump of his leg; on the floor of a wooden cage, bothered by the thought of the greatest villain in the New World losing his life. “I do.”

Silver inhales abruptly, audibly, nostrils flaring. He looks away, briefly, before focusing on Flint again. “Come here,” he says, and Flint draws near without the slightest pause.

Silver reaches for him, touches the nape of his neck where the fuzz of his hair fades and there is just smooth skin. His fingers just caress that spot, over and over. Flint feels a tremor building underneath his skin, radiating out from where Silver’s fingers are stroking at the base of his skull.

“The way you looked when I told you not to repeat your order, not to think about it,” Silver says, his eyes never straying from Flint’s. “The way you _looked_. Standing there and not saying a word.“ He huffs, just as shaken as he was when he saw Madi on the deck of the _Eurydice_ and Rogers holding a pistol to her head. “Jesus, James. All this power that you have amassed over a decade, and you would give it all to me, when you have known me for no more than a year. You would let me have it. You would let me sit in your chair and lead our people with my _wife_ as queen and where would you be? Where do you envision yourself in all of this?” The pressure of his hand on the back of Flint’s neck becomes firmer, squeezing. “Would you desert your king, your queen? Would you dare to leave us? Madi and I are the world in balance, you say. But what about you, James? Do you realise that you are what made me? If _I_ am not poorly made, it is by your own hand that I am so designed. If I am the best of us, _you_ are what shaped me to be so. I once told you you are the one who talked me into caring about those men out there. But James. James—do you see? I never would have understood that I could matter to those men or to anyone at all until I saw how much I wanted to matter to _you_. I cared about you _first_. I cared about you first.”

He presses his forehead against Flint’s, and there’s a roaring in Flint’s head like waves crashing against a cliff. Silver kisses him, lips as hot as the tropical sun. There is no daylight between them, no, never has been and never will be—but Silver _is_ his daylight, his blazing sunlit sky, the thing that shows Flint that there will always be a way out of the dark.

He kisses Silver back, gasping into Silver’s mouth. Silver bites at his lip, pulling it between his teeth, and Flint shudders, crumpling into Silver. He _would_ , he would let Silver take anything, have anything. He would give until he had nothing left to give, and still he would find more, somewhere, somehow, if Silver asked. Silver’s nails are digging into the back of his neck, a sensation he relishes more than anything—he feels Silver could claw his very soul out that way, and it thrills him.

Silver asks, his mouth an inch away from Flint’s, his nails still making sweet crescents of pain bloom on Flint’s nape, “Am I your king?”

“Yes,” Flint says, “yes.” And he would say it a thousand times more.

“And would you kneel for your king, James?” Silver asks, and Flint does not need to say anything to that. He only needs to kneel, and he does, sinking to his knees, movement as fluid and natural as if he were underwater and letting the pull of the briny depths draw him to the ocean bed. He rubs his cheek against the crotch of Silver’s trousers, the hardness swelling underneath the cloth.

“Look at you, so beautiful on your knees. Look at you, the most faithful subject in my kingdom. Look at you.”

Silver’s face is _ardent_ with light, looking down at him, and Flint feels himself glowing with the same light, just as the moon reflects the sun. He mouths at the fabric, dampening it with his spit, licks along the outline of Silver’s cock. Silver unbuttons his trousers and tugs them down, a gesture as generous as a cache of gems being opened, revealing as much treasure. Flint’s mouth falls upon that wealth, eagerly sucking the head of Silver’s cock, his eyes fluttering shut at the scent of it like a cool breeze from the sea on a blistering day, the heat of it like sun-scorched sand.

Flint loves the sea but he could never drink it; good thing, then, that he can drink Silver just like this, and taste the foam-tipped waves every time.

He swallows Silver down into his mouth, and feels as if he were not just kneeling before his king, but before a god in a temple, the whitewashed walls of the cabin transmuted into a gleaming marble hall, all radiant with Silver’s light.

Silver presses his thumb into Flint’s cheek, and says, as rapturous as Flint feels, “God, you’re everything, James, you’re perfect. Let me fuck you. Let me open you up.” Silver grasps his chin and Flint rises. He is still trembling inside, more and more every moment. Silver sits down in the captain’s chair; a word from him and Flint undresses, coat and shirt and boots and trousers all set aside. He is naked, and Silver is in his chair, and nothing has ever felt more right.

He stands in front of Silver, who kisses the jut of his hipbone before grabbing his waist and spinning him around. Silver quickly ties Flint’s hands behind his back with a short length of rope from the drawer, hands skilled as any sailor, and Flint bends over his desk as Silver dips oil-slicked fingers into him. He groans, the side of his head thudding against his desk. It feels so good that he is astonished that he is even allowed to have this. Silver’s fingers are thick and insistent, as if he would reach inside Flint and find that thing that quivers so violently beneath Flint’s skin and make it finally still.

Flint moans and clenches around Silver’s fingers when Silver sucks a ruthless kiss into the flesh of his arse, and then Silver is turning Flint around, gathering Flint onto his lap, urging Flint with words that strike him just as surely as sunbeams strike the sea, in blinding white flashes of heat: “Fuck yourself on my cock, let me feel you—”

Flint sinks down on Silver’s cock, the stretch of it as pure and all-encompassing as peace; he imagines that this is how it will feel every day when the war ends and he gets to simply live, and watch his king and queen reign in his stead. He rocks down and raises himself up again, the muscles in his thighs burning. With his hands tied behind his back, he is a little unsteady, but Silver’s hands are fast on his waist, keeping him stable, never letting him falter.

His fingers twitch wildly behind him. He wants so much to touch, but he cannot. He can only look upon his king: that head of long dark curls where a crown would sit just right. He loves this man so much, this man who has saved him time and time again, who looked into his eyes and believed there was more to him than bloodstained hands and monstrous infamy, who has stood by his side and stained his own hands in the same blood, cloaked himself in the same infamy, so that they could be _partners_. Friends. Two men who love each other enough to know that there can sometimes be something worthwhile and infinitely precious beyond the horror, if one does their utmost best to discover it.

“ _Fuck_ , you’re so beautiful, James,” Silver says, fingers brushing through Flint’s beard as Flint keeps riding his cock. “You’re the most beautiful man in the New World, you know that?”

“Just in the New World?” Flint asks, in a rare moment of humour, even though he knows he is not even the most beautiful man in this room.

Silver laughs, and Flint wonders how long it has been since he has heard that crisp sound of joy, and then Silver is kissing his ear and murmuring, “In the whole universe, if you like.”

And Flint’s heart stutters; his head drops onto Silver’s shoulder as Silver teases the skin below his ear with his sharp teeth, as Silver’s fist loosely circles his cock, and he comes, his cries muffled in the fabric of Silver’s coat.

Silver holds him, hands tight around his waist, hips jerking up, rhythmless and jittering as he fucks into Flint, his mouth warm and seeking in the crook of Flint’s neck. When he comes, his obscenities tucked into the perspiring juncture of Flint’s shoulder, Flint shudders once and then falls still, all the restlessness gone from his limbs at last. He feels as smooth and unblemished as the water always leaves the sand on the shore. To have this. To have the best of them, to have his king, to have his sea. What more could he want?

Silver’s careful hands unbind the rope from his wrists, and then his arms wrap around Flint, in a fervent embrace that forgives and asks forgiveness at the same time, for any wrong they may have done or will do to each other.

“I have trusted you,” Silver says, whispers it into Flint’s skin, the hollow below Flint’s collarbone. “You have asked me to trust you over and over and I have, I _have_. So let me ask this of you, for once. Let me ask that you trust me.”

And Flint thinks, _Have I not trusted you with all that I am, with all that I have ever been? Have I not handed you the knife with which you could slit my own throat, carve out my own heart?_

But he only says, after pressing a kiss to Silver’s hair, just where a crown would sit, “You never had to ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are really appreciated! <3 Come find me [on tumblr](http://reluming.tumblr.com) where Flint's softness is killing me slowly.


End file.
